From a Drood to A Kill: A Secret Histories Novel

by Simon R. Green

  While they were waiting for the blueprints to turn up, Sandra had her people spray the metallic snake with freezing nitrogen. The snake fought the foam’s effects till the last moment, turning into half a dozen increasingly impossible things, until the terrible cold finally knocked all the fight out of it. Sandra then pulled her screwdriver free, and her people moved quickly in to deposit the snake in a reinforced container with a lead-lined interior, before taking it away for further study. Sandra then turned back to me, and glared at me accusingly.

  “Where the hell have you been, Eddie?”

  “The subtle realms,” I said.

  “Then you’ve only yourself to blame. Some places should be declared permanently off-limits to all sane and rational beings. Hello, what have we here?”

  Everyone else surrounding the Bentley took several steps back, upon hearing those words. Sandra crouched down, looking closely at the mud dripping off the underside of the car. Not to be outdone, I crouched down beside her. Bits of mud on the floor were writhing and seething, humping slowly and deliberately away from the car.

  “Interesting . . . ,” said Sandra. “Psychegeography; living materials, from a world where every part of it is alive and conscious . . . Usually with bad intent. You do get around, don’t you, Eddie? Come on, people! Get your arses back here! I want every single bit of this unnaturally mobile shit caught, collected, and locked up in seriously secure containers so it can be sent away for analysis. And God help any of you if you miss one little bit.”

  Her people made themselves very busy. Secretly, I think they quite liked being shouted at. Sandra straightened up again, so I did too. She shook her head slowly.

  “We are not here to provide you with a cleaning service, Eddie.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”

  She looked around to make sure no one was watching, and then shot me a quick grin. “You do tend to brighten up an otherwise dull day, Eddie.”

  “How long before I can have the car back?” I said.

  “Oh, she’ll be ready by the time you’re back from the wake,” said Sandra. “Sink a few cold ones for me. He was the best, your uncle Jack; you know?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know.”

  I nodded a quick good-bye and headed for the garage doors. Sandra yelled after me.

  “Hey, Eddie! You’re supposed to be close to the new Matriarch! Talk to her! Tell her we need a decent budget to do a proper job. You can’t work miracles every day on the cheap! Are you listening to me, Eddie?”

  I kept walking. Some fights you just know you shouldn’t get caught in the middle of.

  * * *

  Once I was safely outside the garage, I retrieved the Merlin Glass from the pocket dimension I keep in my pocket, shook the Glass out to Door size, and stepped through. The Glass dropped me off in a very familiar dark alleyway outside the Wulfshead Club. I shivered despite myself, moving from the warmth of a Summer’s day to the chilly twilight of a London evening. The Glass worked perfectly, for once, which was just as well, because I wasn’t in the mood to be messed with. Perhaps the Glass could sense that. It shrank down to a hand mirror again, and I tucked it away in my pocket. I looked carefully around me. There was no one about in the alley to note my arrival; the Merlin Glass is always very good about choosing just the right moment.

  The alley was full of shadows, lit only by the single amber street light at its far end. It all seemed very quiet; even the roar of passing city traffic sounded eerily muffled, suppressed. Harsh neon from the adjoining streets barely penetrated a few inches into the alley. It was a lonely, separate place, by design. The alley existed only to give access to the Wulfshead Club.

  The narrow passageway was a mess, as always, with piles of genuinely disturbing garbage scattered the length of it. Deliberately never cleaned up, to discourage the wrong sort of people. Some of the garbage seemed to be moving, and not in a good way. And I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be anything as obvious as rats. I gave the garbage plenty of room as I headed for the only door, set flush in the left-hand wall.

  The shiny wet brickwork was covered with layer upon layer of old overlapping graffiti—the usual threats and warnings, boasts and sarcasm. Names of old gods and new street gangs, monsters and messengers. The usual gossip and intelligence, from the hidden world. From the ones who know . . . There was one example of very recent graffiti, right next to the door. The paint still looked wet. Eye Can See You. Oddly ominous, and just a bit worrying . . .

  I stood before the dully gleaming metal door. Solid silver, with no sign or name; either you knew this was the entrance to the Wulfshead Club, preferred drinking hole and gathering place of like-minded souls in the supernatural and super-science community, or you had no business being there. The silver was deeply etched with threats and warnings in angelic and demonic script. You can find all kinds at the Wulfshead. The Management don’t care which side you’re on; they just want your money. The door had no handle. I placed my left hand flat against the metal, which felt uncomfortably warm to the touch. Organically warm. The door swung slowly back, and I retrieved my hand with a certain amount of relief. If your name isn’t on the club’s approved list, the door will bite your hand off. I didn’t think it could get to me past my Drood armour, but I wasn’t in any hurry to find out the hard way.

  I strode through the open door with my head held high and my nose in the air, as though I wasn’t bothered at all. Never show weakness in front of your enemies. Or your friends.

  * * *

  Inside the Wulfshead Club, it was all bright lights and loud noise, the cheerful roar of a great many people determined to have a good time. It’s almost obligatory to be cheerful at a wake, or you’d never get through it. I was pleased to see the place looking so crowded; I always knew my uncle Jack had a great many friends and colleagues, but it was good to see so many of them had turned out for the occasion. It isn’t always possible, given the kind of lives we lead. Music from the Fifties and Sixties—Jack’s favourite period—pumped out of hidden speakers. I recognised a compilation of John Barry themes, from old James Bond movies. Someone’s idea of a sense of humour.

  The walls were covered with a series of massive plasma screens, usually showing secret and embarrassing scenes from the lives of the rich and powerful, just for a laugh; but they’d all been turned off. Tonight was all about Jack Drood, not the outside world. I headed for the long bar, which took up half the far wall. A gleaming high-tech structure, it looked more like a modern art installation than anything functional. But if you can name a drink, or even describe it, you can be sure you’ll find it at the Wulfshead. Everything from Atlantean Ale to Angel’s Urine, from sparkling holy water with a mistletoe chaser to Chernobyl Vodka (for that inner glow). From the frankly perverse to the seriously terrifying, from the entirely illegal to the utterly unnatural. Rumour has it the Wulfshead’s mysterious Management keep their bar stock securely locked up in a separate dimension. Because they’re afraid of it. The dozen or so barmen serving behind the bar all looked exactly the same, because they were. The Management clone them.

  I spotted Molly half-way down the bar, chatting with her sisters, Isabella and Louisa. The world’s most dangerous hen party. I called out Molly’s name, and even through the loud music and raucous chatter, she heard me immediately. She spun round, saw me, and yelled my name joyously. She headed straight for me, barging through the packed crowd with simple determination and much use of her elbows. No one objected. Because even the kind of people who drink at the Wulfshead have more sense than to annoy a Metcalf sister. Molly broke through the last few people, hugged me hard, kissed me harder, and grabbed my arm so she could drag me back to the bar.

  “Have a drink!” she said loudly. “Hell, have several! I am! All drinks are on the house, courtesy of your family, for the duration of the wake. I hope you brought a toothbrush and a change of clothes because I plan on be
ing here for some time!”

  We finally made it to the bar, and Molly drank thirstily from the glass in her hand before banging it down on the bar top, in front of the nearest barman.

  “Another Hemlock Wallbanger, if you please, barman! With a mandrake chaser. And another bag of pork scratchings. What are you having, Eddie?”

  I had already decided that one of us was going to have to pace ourself, and since experience suggested it definitely wasn’t going to be Molly, I settled for my usual bottle of chilled Beck’s. My family had hired this club for as long as needed, and this particular crowd looked determined to do Jack Drood’s memory justice and see him off in grand style.

  “We should really have held this do at Strangefellows,” said Molly. “Your uncle always did most of his drinking in the Nightside. But I suppose there are limits . . .”

  “Oh, there are,” I said. “Really. You have no idea. I did once visit Strangefellows, with Walker. As Shaman Bond. Can’t say I cared much for the place . . .”

  “Of course not,” said Molly. “Far too much fun going on there for you.”

  “I know how to have fun!”

  “Only since you met me.”

  I decided it was probably safer not to disillusion her. I put my back to the bar, alongside Molly, and looked out over the club. There were lots of familiar faces present, many of them the kind of people you meet only at weddings or wakes. Or when you’re trying to kill each other. I took a long pull at my nice cold Beck’s and smiled easily on one and all. I was the only Drood present, because people like these wouldn’t have felt at all safe or comfortable about discussing the Jack Drood they knew in front of his family. Because Uncle Jack . . . got around. I was allowed in only because everyone there knew how close I’d been to the Armourer. So, no Droods. My family can be tactful when we have to.

  But almost immediately I saw one face that shouldn’t have been there. Cedric Drood, the family’s Serjeant-at-Arms. The only Drood who could break the rules with impunity, because he was responsible for enforcing them. He was dressed so casually I almost didn’t recognise him; instead of his usual traditional butler’s outfit, he was wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt over very distressed jeans, and Doc Martens boots. Much about his personality suddenly became clear. But he actually did have every right to be at Jack’s wake; I knew for a fact that he was one of the few other Droods who regularly went off the reservation, to meet and drink with people he shouldn’t. I was sure that if pressed, Cedric would claim he did such things only so he could gather useful gossip and intelligence for the family. But then, as a wise woman once said, he would say that, wouldn’t he? I could remember a time when I was the only Drood who got out and about; but perhaps I only thought that.

  Cedric was drinking and laughing openly with people who genuinely didn’t seem to care that he was a Drood. It’s not often that that happens. In fact, the Serjeant seemed to be on friendly and even familiar terms with a great many people. I was actually shocked to see Cedric abandoning his dignity and letting his hair down, so openly and so enthusiastically. It was like finding out your strict old maiden aunt wore erotic underwear. Cedric looked around, caught me looking at him, and dropped me a heavy wink. I looked away.

  The more I peered around the Wulfshead, the more I seemed to be surrounded by familiar faces. The current Seneschal of the London Knights was there: Sir Perryvale. A large Falstaffian gentleman, he was holding forth to a rapt audience on some of the more secret rituals the Knights got up to when no one else was around. Some of these rituals were extremely old; and some, he freely admitted, he and Jack just made up to see if the Knights would notice the difference. Sir Perryvale had a great mane of silver-grey hair, and a broad ruddy face with huge bristling side whiskers. He was wearing a deafeningly loud Hawaiian shirt over a pair of shorts that were far too short. Especially for a man with legs that hairy. He interrupted himself regularly to drink vintage Champagne straight from the bottle, despite the winces and vigorous protests from more civilised types around him.

  He finished off the bottle and tossed it casually over his shoulder. One of the barman snatched it easily out of mid-air and supplied Sir Perryvale with a fresh bottle, already opened. The Seneschal saw me watching, and called for me and Molly to come over and join him, his great booming voice full of good cheer. I looked at Molly, and she nodded, so we made our way through the packed crowd. Sir Perryvale struck me as a useful person to know. You never know when you might need a friend or a favour, among the London Knights. Particularly now that King Arthur was back.

  Sir Perryvale clapped me heavily on the shoulder with a big, meaty palm and made a point of kissing Molly’s hand. I was a bit surprised she let him; she doesn’t normally have much time for the formal stuff. It might have been the man’s wide smile, or the roguish glint in his eyes; or she might also have decided she could use a future favour from the London Knights. It’s hard to be truly spontaneous in our crowd. You always have to be thinking about what these people might have meant to us in the past, or how they might be useful in the future.

  We chatted easily together about the usual inconsequential things, until the crowd Sir Perryvale had acquired drifted away, disappointed that he wasn’t telling tales out of school any more. Once he was sure they were all gone, he leaned forward and fixed me with a knowing eye.

  “Your uncle Jack and Cedric and I used to go out drinking together all the time,” he said. “More often than not in the sleazier parts of the Nightside, just because we knew we weren’t supposed to be there. If you’re going to break the rules, go all the way, that’s what I say . . . And we used to have regular meetings with all the other servants and factotums, from all the other secret groups and organisations. To share useful information, and to say the things we couldn’t say to our own people . . . It’s always the most disciplined people who feel the need to let off a little steam, now and again. You wouldn’t believe some of the gossip that went back and forth between us . . . But what gets said in the Nightside stays in the Nightside. Mostly. Your uncle Jack always told the best stories. Hell, he starred in a lot of them! I will miss him. I really will. I’m sure some of us will still get together for our little meetings, off the script and under the radar, but it won’t be the same without Jack.”

  “I used to wonder how the Armourer got in and out of Drood Hall so easily, and so often, without being noticed,” I said. “Of course, he was who he was, so . . . Now that I know about Cedric, much becomes clearer.”

  More familiar faces, everywhere I looked. From the Nightside, Dead Boy and Julien Advent. Dead Boy was wearing his usual deep purple greatcoat, with a black rose at the lapel, the coat deliberately left hanging open to show off his autopsy scar. He was drinking something that steamed and bubbled, and telling everyone who would stand still long enough about the times he and Jack went fishing for mermaids in the River Styx, deep down under the Nightside. Might have been true, might not; that was the Nightside for you. And, indeed, Dead Boy . . .

  Julien Advent, that time-lost Victorian Adventurer, was dressed in the formal mourning wear of his own period, right down to the opera cloak and the silver-topped walking cane. It suited him, perhaps because he was one of the few people left alive who could still wear such clothes naturally. He made a point of paying his regrets to me and Molly, while also giving the firm impression that Dead Boy was nothing to do with him. Apparently Julien once talked Jack into giving him a lengthy, no-holds-barred interview for publication in the Night Times. I gather drink was involved. Quite a lot of it. Anyway, after Julien sobered up and listened to the recordings he’d made, he quickly realised there was no way he could publish it without starting several wars, so he buried it. “Would have made a hell of an impact,” he said wistfully.

  From Shadows Fall came those wonderful fictional characters Bruin Bear and the Sea Goat. Shadows Fall is a small town in the back of beyond, where legends go to die when the world stops believing in them.
Once upon a time, every child read the many adventures of the Bear and the Goat in the Golden Lands, but the books were no longer published and no longer popular, so Bruin Bear and the Sea Goat now lived only in Shadows Fall. Having marvellous new adventures, of a kind their old readers could only dream about.

  Bruin Bear was a four-foot-tall teddy bear, with golden-honey fur and dark, knowing eyes. He wore a bright red tunic and had a bright blue scarf wrapped tightly round his neck. He also had a single gold earring and a Rolex on his wrist. He drank old-fashioned Coke from an old-fashioned glass bottle, and regaled us with happy tales of his times with the Armourer.

  Apparently, Jack had once rescued the Bear and the Goat from kidnappers sent by their old publishers, who wanted them permanently disposed of so they could replace them with more modern and relevant versions. Bruin Bear shuddered delicately at the thought, and I felt like joining in. A lot of people paused as they passed, to nod and smile fondly at Bruin Bear. He was just that sort of Bear.

  Which was more than you could say about the Sea Goat. Wrapped in a filthy ankle-length trench coat with half the buttons missing, he looked human enough from the shoulders down. Tall and angular, with broad shoulders, he had a huge blocky goat’s head, with long curling horns and a permanent nasty grin. His grey fur was soiled and matted, and his eyes were seriously bloodshot. He’d fallen far from grace as a children’s favourite, and it showed. He carried a bottle of vodka, which by some kind magic was never empty, and he was cramming his mouth full of the snacks left out in bowls along the bar top. He caught Bruin Bear looking at him and said indistinctly, “But it’s the best kind of food! It’s free!”

  “I’d tell him to pace himself,” said Bruin Bear, “but it would only be a waste of breath. Restraint is not a word the Sea Goat understands, along with other everyday terms like dignity, self-control, and self-preservation instincts. It wasn’t supposed to be us, you understand, representing Shadows Fall; it should have been Old Father Time. Apparently he and Jack go way back . . . But at the last moment, there was a crisis in the chronoflow. No, me neither. He does hope to look in later, if he can get away. And the universe still exists. Shadows Fall was determined someone should be here to pay the town’s respects to Jack’s memory, and the Sea Goat volunteered the two of us.”